


Murmuring hearts

by jspringsteen



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: M/M, No Smut, because I can't write smut worth a damn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jspringsteen/pseuds/jspringsteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world was teetering; he knew that this war was an agent of change that would reduce the past, with its girls and dances and small town jobs, to an object of nostalgic longing. Their pasts didn't matter, nor did the future; what mattered was the war, right here and now. But Hoosier's tongue, mused Leckie as he sat contemplating it where it poked out from between Hoosier's lips like an open mussel, rather complicated things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murmuring hearts

"The thousand sights or sounds or words that evoke in us the thought of beauty -- these are the drops of rain that keep the human spirit from death by drought." - John Galsworthy

*

Leckie watched as Sid tried to blink back the acute pricking of tears at what must be a surge of pleasant childhood memories of poking cows or whatever the hell it was people in Alabama grew up doing. He'd read Huckleberry Finn five times; he had a fair idea. His gaze slid over to Hoosier who was reclining with his arms folded behind his head. His eyes were closed but he could see just a little glint underneath the eyelids. As Sid read on, Hoosier's tongue poked out, startlingly pink in his tan, dirty face, and ran across the white clefts and cracks of his dry lips. A desert, thought Leckie, a world of desert. At university he once sat in on a Japanese poetry class to impress a girl he was interested in at the time--this was before "Japanese" became synonymous with "evil"--and had become acquainted with haikus. Issa and Basho.  
     " _This world of dew, is but a world of dew. And yet--_ ". He remembered it clearly. Of course, along with many other things, there was no dew to be had on Guadalcanal. What he wouldn't give for the clean, fresh morning air that bedaubed spiderwebs and blades of grass and stabbed you in the lungs when you inhaled, or even for the smells of New York, heavy with exhaust gases, the steam rising from freshly baked bagels, and the unsavoury odours of porticos used as shelters by the homeless. There was only the muggy heat of the jungle, filled with a palpable moisture that drenched you within minutes if your sweat hadn't done that already, and the sweltering sun on the beach that put a crack in everything; dead trees, dried mud, and yes, lips. The sea breeze brought little reprieve and coated everything sticky, salty.  
     " _This world of desert, is but a world of desert. And yet--_ "  
     "What you muttering about now, Lucky?" Hoosier hadn't opened his eyes. His lips were parted. He ran his tongue along them again, obscenely--doing it on purpose, Leckie thought, he must have seen me looking. He wondered how Hoosier had enough saliva to keep licking his lips--his own throat was painful with thirst. He found himself momentarily sucked in by the sight of Hoosier's tongue. It reminded him of the pink, glazed donuts sold on street corners in New York; his stomach grunted in despair. Hoosier opened his eyes to a chink. One corner of Leckie's mouth dragged up into a smile.  
     "Oh, nothing." He waved his hand. "Just a slip of the tongue."  
Hoosier hoisted himself up on his elbows and stared at Leckie, amusement dancing in his eyes. Sand had gathered in the corners of his eyes, in the pink shell of his ear, in the dip between his collar bones. A fine layer of salt from the sea breeze clung to his skin. Leckie challenged his gaze. There was always an air of electric antagonism between them, more than he had with Runner or Chuckler. They constantly wanted to draw each other out, bouncing off each other's quips and jabs like opposing magnets--but the polarity could just as well be reversed, and they were always drawn to each other's company. Yet Hoosier remained aloof to him; less game than the others to read his mail aloud (he hardly ever had any), to share stories of childhood scars or talk about the girls from his hometown. Leckie was rather content to keep it that way. He was certainly not the person to go digging into somebody's past just so he could rile them up more easily. Their camaraderie was forged in the moment. The world was teetering; he knew that this war was an agent of change that would reduce the past, with its girls and dances and small town jobs, to an object of nostalgic longing. Their pasts didn't matter, nor did the future; what mattered was the war, right here and now. But Hoosier's tongue, mused Leckie as he sat contemplating it where it poked out from between Hoosier's lips like an open mussel, rather complicated things.  
     The order came to move out. Sid's friend had a murmur in his heart, he told Leckie as they started walking towards the treeline. Wants to join the Corps, but his father won't let him. Leckie thought wryly about his own father's reaction when he'd told him he was joining the Marines. He had put down his paper for all of ten seconds, nodded solemnly, and called out to the kitchen: "How's that roast comin' along?" Terrified, thought Leckie, of showing any commitment, of shedding a tear for the fate of his son. _A world of desert_. He wondered what it might have been like for Hoosier. He imagined Hoosier as a sort of Huckleberry Finn, up and leaving with a knapsack, floating down the river, looking for adventure. Licking his lips in anticipation.  
     They were singing "Happy birthday" to Sid. Leckie stared ahead at the vast wall of green and its huge, black, gaping mouth, into which Marines were disappearing one by one. He imagined the patch of grass on which they were walking a giant tongue; as soon as they were all inside, it would lift, push them in even further, and the jungle would swallow them whole. Now he was thinking about tongues again.  
     The smell of rotting wood and flowering trees penetrated his nostrils as he entered the dim forest. The noise made by birds and insects was overwhelming and muted the clicks and rattles of equipment bouncing against helmets and ammunition belts being hoisted over shoulders. A nauseating smell--of meat gone bad--joined the confusion. Later he would remember it as his first whiff of death.  
The dead soldier's tongue was swollen and black. Flies buzzed around it, greedily tucking into the ambrosia of decomposing flesh. Leckie gagged, tasting acid. A Marine stood smoking a cigarette, shielding the gory view from where they were filing past on the muddy path. Leckie bumped into Hoosier from behind. Hoosier turned around and looked at him, solemnly, but said nothing. The sight left them all shaken.  
* * *  
When they had made camp in the evening, Leckie looked over at Hoosier and Runner's foxhole. The burning embers on the horizon cast an almost violet light on the beach. He could see Hoosier curled up underneath his blanket. The fading light picked out the dark circles under his eyes, making them seem hollow, like a corpse. The Japanese rice wine and the hunger clawing in his stomach made him feel light-headed. He strained his eyes to see if Hoosier was breathing. He thought of Hoosier's tongue, black and stiff and dry; his body swollen with rainwater, his wounds oozing and malodorous.  
     When he saw insects beginning to circle above the sleeping Hoosier--which turned out to be mosquitoes--he heaved himself up and snake-bellied over to the adjacent foxhole. He loomed over Hoosier, whose face was turned away and half-buried in his blanket. Was he breathing? It was impossible to tell. Leckie became aware of his own heavy breathing, like an oxen, in the stillness of the night.  
     Hoosier stirred. Relief flooded him, and was followed immediately by a sense of shame. Ridiculous! Men did not just die in their sleep. At least, not here. The jungle and the Japs were the umpires of their fates. He made to slither back towards his hole when Hoosier sat up, abruptly, nearly knocking into him. He squinted. Darkness was falling like a curtain.  
     "Leckie? That you?"  
Leckie opened his mouth, but could make no answer. His mind was whirring; all he could think of was the dead soldiers, and Hoosier's tongue.  
     "Show me your tongue," he said. It had slipped out before he could make up an excuse. Hoosier was frowning at him through the gloom. "My tongue?"  
He felt exhausted. He stared at Hoosier, who stared back at him.  
     "Corpsman says if there's something wrong with you, you can tell by your tongue," he said. What a pathetic argument, he thought. Hoosier chuckled, a low rumble in his throat.  
     "Hell, ain't nothing wrong with my tongue. I'm more concerned about yours. You feelin alright, Lucky?"  
When Leckie didn't reply, Hoosier sat up even straighter, pulling his blanket around his shoulders. He reached for Leckie's face in the gloom. Leckie felt a coarse, cool palm on his forehead. He closed his eyes, and leaned into it. A second hand cupped his cheek. He opened his mouth to speak, and found himself silenced by the brush of Hoosier's chapped lips, the ghosting of his breath on his chin. He didn't open his eyes; instead he leaned in, wanting to feel Hoosier's rough stubble on his cheek, on his lips, the slick balm of his tongue on his arid lips. When he felt Hoosier's quick puffs of breath he manoeuvred his mouth onto his, licking Hoosier's lips and slipping his tongue inside. He was consumed by the heat of Hoosier's mouth and the feeling of that tongue--not dessicated, not swollen, but soft, sweet with saliva, alive with movement--and he sighed with pleasure against him. He could hear Hoosier breathing harshly through his nose and felt his fingers pressing more forcefully into the soft flesh of his cheeks. He reached up and put his hand over Hoosier's, caressing the top of his hand which was not bloated and slimy, but dry and glowing with sunburn. Leckie felt intensely grateful for the sandpapery skin, the tiny hairs on his knuckles, the swells of his veins; for returning from the wet orifice of the jungle that slowly digested those who walked in it to something that was beautifully dry and rough and cool.  
     Then Hoosier let him go. He whispered, "You gotta go to sleep now, Lucky. I think you're feelin just fine. We don't wanna set no tongues a-waggin." He patted Leckie's shoulder and sunk back into his hole. Though the curtain of night now shielded Hoosier from him, Leckie imagined he could see that grin flashing in the dark, like the Cheshire cat. As Runner mumbled and started to snore, Leckie retreated to his and Chuckler's foxhole. As he wriggled under his blanket, he licked his lips, still moist. _A world of dew_.


End file.
